It is the nature of the writer to question the validity of his world and yet rely on his senses to describe it. From what other tension can great lit… - Jeff VanderMeer

Maybe once, early on, he had convinced himself he could do some good, sometimes even imagined he was a mole, getting close so he could strike a blow. Imagined he was in it to defend Ambergris from the enemies that surrounded it. Imagined he was protecting ordinary citizens. But the truth was he’d been tired, had stopped caring. Broken down from too much fighting, too many things connected to his past. And when that spark, that impulse, had returned, it was too late: he was trapped.

I could not move or speak for several minutes, frozen in the belief that the book itself had changed and was now writing me.

A fresh river in a beautiful meadow Imagined in his mind The good Painter, who would some day paint it